


Precious Memories

by ravenclawsquill



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bickering, Blow Jobs, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Explicit Sexual Content, Glasses kink, H/D Career Fair 2017, Interfering House-Elves, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Memories, Minor Dean Thomas/Ginny Weasley, Oral Sex, Pensieve Repairer Draco Malfoy, Pensieves, Pining, Slash, Tea, Top Harry Potter, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-18 07:17:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12383484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenclawsquill/pseuds/ravenclawsquill
Summary: When Harry’s Pensieve breaks with a very important memory trapped inside, he has no choice but to hire an expert to repair it. Then Draco Malfoy steps out of his Floo, and Harry isn’t sure what to expect. He certainly isn’t anticipating tea, biscuits and gold-rimmed glasses.





	Precious Memories

**Author's Note:**

> For Prompt #[46](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1LiaSm8GWFLsDD8KUOZmlTSHmhIMyFZzdqYNfB-25Khk/edit).
> 
> All my thanks to [unadulteratedstorycollector](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unadulteratedstorycollector/profile) for a prompt I really couldn't resist, and to the wonderful mods for running this fest – especially in light of their endless patience when I had to ask for a huge extension.
> 
> I also owe a special thanks to my superstar beta, [carpemermaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carpemermaid/profile), for lending me her eagle eyes at short notice and making this fic significantly better.

 

 

_...Thank you for calling Precious Memories. Your call is important to us and will be answered in rotation. Please hold… _

 

Harry’s patience was wearing thin. He’d been “on hold” for nearly an hour, and his knees were protesting furiously at the awkward position he’d been forced to adopt, on all fours in front of the fireplace with his head in the Floo. It hadn't looked this uncomfortable back when Sirius had done it all those years ago – though, Harry reasoned, Sirius had been living as a dog in a cave at the time, so perhaps it wasn't a fair comparison.

 

_...You are caller number … seven … in the queue. Please hold… _

 

“Hello?!” Harry called out. “How much longer am I going to have to wait?” When his question was met with yet another piece of jaunty hold music, his temper flared and he added, “I know you're there, I can see your feet!”

 

That wasn't strictly true: the ludicrously tiny Precious Memories fireplace coupled with the large grate someone had placed in front of it meant that Harry couldn't see much at all – in fact, it felt rather like his head was trapped in a small grey shoebox. His shouting seemed to do the trick, though, because a moment later the grate finally lifted and he found himself looking up at an immaculately made-up Witch.

 

“Good morning sir, and thank you for calling Precious Memories, Britain’s best and most beloved Pensieve provider. My name is Priya. How may I help you?”

 

“I have a problem with my Pensieve,” Harry explained, leaning further forward to stop the flames from ticking the back of his neck. “It just stopped working while I was viewing a memory, and now the memory’s trapped inside it. I can see it swirling in the bowl, but I can’t get it out.” 

 

Priya nodded sympathetically and tucked her long brown hair behind one ear. “I’m sorry to hear that, sir. Was your Pensieve supplied by Precious Memories?”

 

“No, it’s actually a really old one – it might even be an antique, actually – but a couple of people recommended you as the best people for repairs.”

 

“Ah, I see,” Priya said with a knowing smile. “You’ve certainly come to the right place. We at Precious Memories pride ourselves on the skills of our specialist repairs team. Would you like me to arrange an appointment for your Pensieve to be assessed?”

 

“Yes please.” Harry beamed, relieved to finally be getting somewhere. “Shall I bring it to one of your stores?” He knew he’d said something wrong when Priya visibly recoiled.

 

“Oh no, sir. I’d urge you never to move a damaged Pensieve, especially one with a memory trapped inside: doing so could cause irreparable damage. I’ll arrange for one of our specialists to come out to you. Is the Pensieve located at the address you’re calling from?”

 

“Yes,” Harry nodded, wincing slightly as the movement exacerbated the ache in his back.

 

“Excellent, I’ll make a note of your Floo coordinates.” She ducked out of sight for a moment and returned with a crisp sheet of parchment.

 

“The earliest appointment one of our specialists can attend is ten o’clock on Saturday morning. Is that suitable?”

 

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Harry confirmed, eager to escape his torturously uncomfortable Floo call position.

 

Priya made a note on her parchment. “Very well, sir. Our expert will Floo to your property on Saturday morning. Thank you for calling Precious Memories.” She flashed Harry a polite, professional smile as she replaced the heavy grate, obscuring his view and ending the call.

  
  


~*~*~*~

  
  


When Saturday morning came around, Harry settled down on the living room sofa after breakfast with a copy of Quidditch Weekly. After the Floo call fiasco earlier that week, he wasn't holding out much hope that the Precious Memories specialist would arrive on time.

 

In fact, he was so sure they’d be late that when the Floo roared to life at ten minutes to ten, it took Harry so completely by surprise that his Hit Wizard training kicked in. He leapt to his feet, instinctively grabbing his wand from the coffee table on the way up, and stood poised, ready to defend himself.

 

When the green flames died down enough to reveal his guest, Harry initially thought he was hallucinating. He fought the urge to remove his glasses and wipe them on his t-shirt, and chose instead to gape at the man standing in his fireplace. It took Harry several long seconds to find his voice, and when he did, only a single word came out.

 

“Malfoy?!”

 

Draco Malfoy brushed a fine coating of ash from the shoulders of his grey suit jacket and stepped out from the hearth. He didn't look remotely surprised to see Harry, but he did raise a pale eyebrow at Harry’s fighting stance.

 

“Bloody hell, Potter,” he said, looking Harry up and down. “Do you always greet visitors as if you're challenging them to a duel?”

 

Harry reluctantly lowered his wand. “Not always,” he muttered.

 

Malfoy smirked. “I’ll count myself as special, then. Now, I understand you’ve been having trouble with an antique Pensieve?”

 

“Yeah, I—” Harry broke off, frowning, as his mind finally processed the bizarre situation. “Just to be clear,  _ you’re _ the expert? You seriously work for Precious Memories?” 

 

“Yes,” Malfoy replied shortly.

 

“ _ Precious Memories _ ?” Harry repeated, struggling to contain a laugh.

 

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “It’s not my company, Potter. I didn’t choose the name. Now, do you want me to examine your Pensieve or not? I can assure you, I have plenty of other clients to see, all of whom would offer a much warmer welcome than this.” 

 

Harry sighed: apparently Malfoy hadn't become any nicer during the five years since their last encounter. He took a moment to weigh up his options. He could send Malfoy packing – he certainly didn’t want the git poking around in his memories … but then he’d be back to square one, stuck with his head in the fire enduring Merlin only knew how many minutes on hold to Precious Memories. “I suppose you might as well take a look,” he conceded.

 

“Good.” Malfoy took out his wand, removed a clipboard and quill from his jacket pocket and restored them to full size. “Before I carry out my initial assessment of your Pensieve, we’ll unfortunately have to run through some paperwork.”

 

“Okay,” Harry agreed. He gestured towards the careworn sofa in the middle of the room, silently inviting Malfoy to sit down.

 

“This is the point where a gracious host would offer me a cup of tea,” Malfoy said quietly, with a pointed look at Harry as he perched primly on the very edge of the sofa.

 

Harry stared. Surely, after all of their history, Malfoy wasn't expecting him to put the kettle on? He waited for the punchline of the joke, but it didn't come – and Malfoy didn’t relent. “I take it with a dash of milk and two sugars,” he added. “I wouldn’t turn down a biscuit, either.”

 

“Two sugars. Right.” Harry stomped off to the kitchen to make the tea, reeling from the absurdity of the situation. He could have asked Kreacher to brew up, of course, but he didn't want to draw the old Elf’s attention to Malfoy’s presence – he’d probably wet himself with excitement at the thought of serving a Wizard with such an impeccable bloodline. Besides, Harry didn’t want Malfoy to see him as the type of bloke who kept a House-elf. The fact that he  _ did _ have one was by the by.

 

Harry wasn't entirely comfortable leaving Malfoy alone in his living room, so he rushed making the drinks in order to get back in there as quickly as possible. He made a point of leaving the biscuits at the back of the cupboard: biscuits were for friends,  _ not _ old rivals.

 

“No biscuits?” Malfoy asked when Harry returned, pursing his lips as Harry handed him the ugliest mug in the entire house: a revolting chipped monstrosity depicting a pair of naked cave trolls.

 

“Don’t push it,” Harry grumbled.

 

Malfoy shrugged. “Fine. I see there’s no point in wasting time on further pleasantries, so let’s get to work.” He took out a delicate pair of wire-framed glasses and put them on, pausing briefly to align them so they sat properly across the bridge of his pointed nose. 

 

Harry’s stomach did a strange little flip. He’d never seen Malfoy wear glasses before, let alone a pair that suited his sharp features so well – at least, that was the excuse Harry’s brain supplied for why his mouth had suddenly gone dry and his pulse had rocketed. He didn’t have too long to dwell on his reaction, though, as Malfoy suddenly clicked his fingers in Harry’s face, snapping him out of his daze. 

 

“Potter?” 

 

Harry blinked. “What?” 

  
“You’re looking at me as if you’ve been Confunded.”

 

Harry shook his head quickly to push away a most unwelcome train of thought, centred largely around him reaching out to touch Malfoy’s glasses. “No I’m not.”

 

“Right...” Malfoy didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press the matter. “We’ll begin with a few questions, which should help me to narrow down the problem with your Pensieve.” 

 

“Alright, go ahead,” Harry agreed.

 

Malfoy glanced down at his clipboard. “Firstly, can you give me some details about the Pensieve? How old it is, where you got it, that sort of thing.” 

 

“It’s pretty ancient, but I’m not sure exactly how old it is – it was here when I inherited the house,” Harry explained.

 

Malfoy twitched and cast his eyes around the room. “This house? As in, it might be a Black family heirloom?”

 

Harry nodded. “Yeah, it could be. I’ve never thought to check.”

 

Malfoy made a note, making no effort to hide his intrigue. “Interesting. And I can see from Priya’s notes that there’s a memory trapped inside. I take it you’d like to retrieve it?”

 

“Yes, if possible,” Harry said.

 

Malfoy nodded, frowning slightly. “Whether it’s possible or not depends entirely on how firmly it’s trapped. I can’t give you any guarantees on that front.”

 

“I understand,” Harry said. It was nothing he hadn’t been expecting. 

 

Malfoy seemed pleased by this; his frown fell away and he settled back against the sofa cushions into a position that looked much more comfortable. “Good. It always helps when a client understands the limitations. Now, in the weeks prior to the Pensieve breaking, did you notice any unusual instances of déjà vu after using it?” 

 

“No, why would I?” Harry asked.

 

Malfoy sighed impatiently, as if he was asked this question far too often. “Déjà vu is one of the primary indicators that a Pensieve is leaking. Its presence would suggest that there’s structural damage to the physical Pensieve, rather than a spellwork issue. Structural damage is far more difficult to repair, so it’s a good sign that you haven’t experienced any.” He paused to scribble something on his clipboard, then launched into the next question. “Have you been daydreaming more than usual?”

 

Harry took a moment to think. “No, I don’t think so.”

 

Malfoy’s lips curved up into a satisfied smile as he marked a tick on his form. “Excellent. It appears we’re looking at a spellwork issue.”

 

“Oh, good,” Harry agreed. He wasn’t sure what was so excellent about a spellwork problem, but Malfoy was the expert, so he figured he may as well go along with it.

 

Next came a series of increasingly convoluted questions about the shape, style and history of the Pensieve. Harry was unable to answer most of them, much to Malfoy’s frustration.

 

As they worked through the surprisingly long list and drank their tea, Harry often found himself gawping at Malfoy, admiring the way the elegant wire frames of his glasses framed his face, and how the narrow cut of his suit flattered his slim physique. 

 

He couldn't deny that his old rival looked pretty good – certainly a far cry from the last time Harry had seen him. Then again, Harry conceded, he probably hadn't looked his best, either, in the aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts. If it weren't for their history, Harry might even have admitted that Malfoy was very much his type: lithe and fair, with a razor-sharp jawline and plenty of confidence. It was almost a shame that he was a complete arsehole, and most likely a straight one at that.

 

Harry was still staring when Malfoy looked up from his clipboard and announced that the next question was the last one on his list. “Now, before I ask this question, I want to make it completely clear that it’s standard procedure and I have no choice but to ask it.”

 

“Right…” Harry said, suddenly feeling wary.

 

Malfoy looked him dead in the eye, and asked, without any trace of humor or irony, “Is the memory trapped inside in any way illegal or pornographic?”

 

“P-pornographic?!” Harry stammered, his cheeks instantly flushing pink. 

 

“Yes,” said Malfoy. “Pornographic. You’d be amazed how often antique Pensieves break when their owners are watching … adult-themed … memories. They’re often subject to ancient spellwork designed to preserve the user’s chastity, you see.”

 

Harry’s blush deepened at Malfoy’s use of the word ‘chastity’, despite his best efforts to appear calm. “Christ. No, I wasn't watching anything like that.” The memory he  _ had _ been watching was perhaps equally problematic given that Malfoy might see it, but Harry decided they’d cross that bridge when they came to it.

 

Malfoy nodded, looking faintly disappointed. “Pity. That could have been interesting.” He shrunk his clipboard, then removed his glasses and slipped everything back into his jacket pocket. “That’s the paperwork stage complete, you’ll be glad to know. Now it’s time for me to take a proper look at your Pensieve. Where is it?”

 

“It’s upstairs,” Harry said.

 

Malfoy got to his feet in one smooth movement. “Lead the way.”

 

Harry scrambled to his feet and led Malfoy out of the living room and up the first dimly-lit staircase. He didn't often have visitors – he preferred to go round to his friends’ houses rather than invite them over to his – and he was suddenly strangely self-conscious of his home, hyper-aware of every crooked portrait and every dusty corner that he and Kreacher had neglected to clean properly.

 

He could sense Malfoy’s surprise as they made their way along the first floor landing, and although it was perfectly reasonable – after all, Grimmauld Place certainly wasn't the sort of house Harry had ever expected to live in long term – he was relieved that no questions were asked.

 

“It’s in here,” Harry said when they reached his study. He pushed the battered oak door open and beckoned to Malfoy, watching as he took in the stark contrast of the room compared to the dinginess of the rest of the house.

 

Malfoy’s eyebrows shot up as he looked around, his grey eyes widening at the light, airy space with its floor-length windows and ultra-modern minimalist furnishings. His gaze came to rest on Harry’s desk – a sleek sheet of glass hovering in mid-air near the back of the room. “Nice study, Potter,” he said eventually, unable to hide his approval.

 

“No need to sound so shocked,” Harry grumbled in mock offence, and then added, despite himself, “Dean designed it for me. You know, Dean Thomas, from school?”

 

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

 

“Yeah, he set up his own interior design business a few years ago. He sorted out a few rooms for me, helped make this horrible old place a bit more liveable…” Harry trailed off, suddenly feeling awkward. He wasn’t quite sure what he was doing, trying to have an amicable conversation with Malfoy as if they were friendly acquaintances rather than bitter enemies. “Anyway,” he continued hastily, pointing to the far side of the room, “the Pensieve is over there.”

 

Malfoy stalked over to where the Pensieve stood on a small glass table, its obvious age almost jarring set against the otherwise modern decor. Dean had told Harry that the contrast made for an interesting focal point, and Harry had been happy to trust his judgement.

 

“Merlin, this is truly ancient,” Malfoy murmured. He leaned down until his nose was almost touching the coarse stone bowl, ran his pale fingertips around the outer edge, then took out his wand and cast a nonverbal spell which illuminated it in balmy yellow light. It meant nothing to Harry, but it seemed to mean something significant to Malfoy, who began muttering to himself under his breath.

 

“Right,” he said after a few moments without turning to look at Harry. “I'm going to run through the initial set of tests to get a feel for the problem. It shouldn't take more than a couple of hours.”

 

Harry knew he should probably return downstairs and leave Malfoy to it, but he was far too intrigued – by both what Malfoy was going to do, and by Malfoy himself – to do that. He racked his brain, trying to think of an appropriate excuse to stay and watch. 

 

“Do you mind if I work in here?” he asked, feeling faintly ridiculous for asking such a question in his own home. “I’ve got a bit of paperwork to finish for work, but I wouldn’t want to distract you.” It wasn’t the most exciting way to spend a Saturday, but at least it was the truth.

 

Malfoy just nodded distractedly, his eyes still fixed on the Pensieve. “No, that’s fine, provided you don’t sing while you work.”

 

Harry smiled. “Nope, you’re pretty safe on that front.” 

 

“Good. You’d be amazed how many of my clients do.”

 

Harry dashed downstairs to pick up a half-finished case report from his work rucksack, and rushed back up again, eager not to miss anything. 

 

He almost stopped short in the doorway when he saw that Malfoy had removed his jacket and put his glasses back on, but forced himself to keep walking all the way to his desk.

 

He sat down and got settled, opening up the case report and taking out a quill. For once, Harry found himself wishing that his desk had legs; his feet and knees felt oddly exposed, even though Malfoy was completely fixated on the Pensieve.

 

He drew a deep breath, only to inhale a lungful of sandalwood-scented air. He looked around and realised that Malfoy had hung his jacket over the back of the desk chair. 

 

After a quick glance to check that Malfoy wasn't watching him, Harry surreptitiously reached behind himself to touch the jacket. As expected, the fabric was sinfully soft, and obviously of a far higher quality than anything Harry owned. Harry wondered whether all of Malfoy’s clothes were so decadent … and that was all it took to send his mind off on a highly inappropriate trajectory.

 

The minutes ticked by, and Harry’s productivity continued to plummet. Rather than working on his paperwork, he ended up watching as Malfoy cast a range of spells over the Pensieve. At first, Harry told himself he was interested in the repair process, but he was quickly forced to admit that his interest wasn't so much in the spellwork as it was in the attractive blond Wizard performing it.

 

 _There’s nothing wrong with looking_ , Harry thought as he let his gaze roam along the slim, straight lines of Malfoy’s back and shoulders. Looking couldn’t hurt anyone … and besides, if Harry was going to give up his whole Saturday morning, he might as well get _something_ out of it. 

 

So look he did. 

 

Harry watched as Malfoy’s perpetual scowl fell away and was replaced by a look of determined concentration; he admired the sharp cut of Malfoy’s tailored suit, enjoying the way the fitted trousers hugged Malfoy’s legs almost indecently; he bit down on his bottom lip when Malfoy ran his hands through his short hair, leaving it just infinitesimally messier than before. It was only when Malfoy bent over the Pensieve, sticking his arse out in such a way that had Harry’s cock twitching with interest, that Harry was forced to admit that perhaps he was getting a little  _ too much  _ out of staring. 

 

He reluctantly tore his eyes away from Malfoy and made a final attempt to claw back his focus. This time, it worked: Harry finally managed to immerse himself in the finer details of his upcoming raid on a dragon egg smuggling ring.

 

The minutes ticked by in near silence, broken only by the occasional rustle of paper or  _ whoosh  _ of a spell, both men completely absorbed in their respective tasks. The grandfather clock downstairs chimed eleven, then twelve, but neither of them heard it.

 

Harry’s stomach was just beginning to growl when Malfoy came over to him and cleared his throat. 

 

“Potter?”

 

Harry looked up, only for his stomach to drop all over again as he saw that Malfoy was still wearing those damned glasses. “Yeah?”

 

“I’ve finished my initial review.”

 

“And…?”

 

Malfoy took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “It’s definitely a charmwork issue. It’s repairable, but it won’t be a simple job; the spellwork’s incredibly old and remarkably messy. I’d wager it hasn't been serviced in at least fifty years. If I can remove the trapped memory – and don’t get your hopes up too high, there’s no guarantee it can be salvaged – I’ll need to strip back almost all of the charms and start again from scratch.” 

 

“Is that something you can do today?” Harry asked.

 

Malfoy shook his head. “Definitely not. For a start, I’m fully booked this afternoon.” He checked his watch and grimaced. “In fact, I’ve already overrun on our appointment and should really get going. If you want to go ahead with the repair, it’ll likely take a number of appointments … maybe three, or even four, if it’s as complex as it looks.”

 

“No problem. When suits you?” Harry asked, reaching behind himself and unhooking Malfoy’s jacket from the back of his chair. He held it out, revelling once more in the feeling of the soft fabric beneath his fingertips before Malfoy took it from him and slipped it on.

 

“How about the same time next Saturday?” Malfoy suggested. “My appointment book is fairly clear, so I’ll be able to spend most of the day working on it.”

 

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Harry agreed, making a mental note to cancel his plans to meet Ron and Hermione for lunch. They wouldn’t be pleased – especially Ron, given that he’d already cancelled this weekend’s plans – but they knew how eager he was to get his Pensieve fixed. They’d understand.

 

With their next appointment arranged, Harry got to his feet and led Malfoy back downstairs to the living room Floo. 

 

When they got there, Malfoy unexpectedly held out his hand. “I’ll see you next week.” 

 

Harry took it and tried very hard to maintain an appropriate facial expression as Malfoy subjected him to a firm, professional handshake. It was no easy feat: Malfoy’s hand was wonderfully soft, and his grip deliciously firm. “Yeah. I’ll see you then.”

 

Malfoy took a handful of Floo powder from the pot on the mantelpiece and threw it into the grate. Green flames surged up and he stepped into them without looking back. 

 

As soon as Malfoy had disappeared, Harry flopped down on the sofa. His mind was racing. If someone had told him a week ago that he’d willingly allow Draco Malfoy to spend a morning in his home, that neither of them would even attempt to hex the other, and that he’d spend half the time  _ perving _ on the bloke, he’d have suggested they were in need of a one way ticket to the Janus Thickey Ward.

 

As it was, he was the one who appeared to be mad. Even stranger than everything that had happened over the course of the morning, he was already excited about Malfoy’s next visit. Harry shook his head in disbelief. He needed a distraction. 

 

He reached out for the neglected copy of Quidditch Weekly and opened it up. Luckily, he’d always been fairly distractible: before long, he’d pushed all thoughts of Malfoy to the back of his mind and was fully focused on the latest set of transfer rumours. 

  
  


~*~*~*~

  
  


Malfoy arrived ten minutes early again the following Saturday, but this time Harry was prepared. He even had two cups of tea waiting on the coffee table, encapsulated by a gentle warming charm.

 

“Morning, Potter,” Malfoy said as he stepped out of the fireplace. A smug look crossed his face as he caught sight of the tea, and Harry did his best not to smile in response.

 

“Hi Malfoy.”

 

Malfoy shrugged out of his jacket, revealing the crisp white shirt he wore underneath, removed his wand from the inside pocket and lay it over the back of the sofa. “Shall we?” he asked.

 

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, ignoring the twinge of disappointment that he wouldn't get to bask in the scent of Malfoy’s aftershave for a second time.

 

He picked up the tea and led Malfoy upstairs in comfortable silence. There was no repeat of the awkwardness from last week: they simply took their places at opposite ends of the room, Malfoy beside the Pensieve and Harry at his desk.

 

Once Harry had got himself settled and opened up a fresh case file, he watched surreptitiously as Malfoy set up his things.

 

Malfoy’s expression of concentration from last week returned as he took a series of items out of his trouser pocket and restored them to size with a tap of his wand: first his clipboard and quill, then a handful of tiny gold bulldog clips, and set them out neatly on the bookshelf beside the Pensieve. Finally, he took out his glasses and slipped them on.

 

Harry’s breath caught in his throat and he forced himself to look away quickly. The damage was done, though – even as he stared intently at the parchment in front of him, his mind insistently supplied the image of a bespectacled Malfoy.

 

What was wrong with him? Harry had never thought of glasses as being particularly sexy before – useful and occasionally inconvenient, yes, but definitely not a turn on. He was certainly thinking about them that way now. The thin wire frames were a perfect match for Malfoy’s cheekbones, and more than anything, Harry wanted to cross the room and do something entirely inappropriate.

 

Several minutes passed before Harry dared to look up again, and when he did, his interest was immediately piqued.

 

Harry watched, fascinated, as Malfoy began to pick at the mass of charmwork within the stone bowl of the Pensieve, illuminating damaged strands of magic and examining them closely. It was obvious that Malfoy took great pride in his work; every so often, a satisfied little smirk crept across his lips as he untangled a particularly stubborn knot of magic. Mostly, he removed them from the web, but every so often he’d pick up a small gold clip from the bookcase and use it to secure a thread in mid-air before smoothly severing it with a swish of his wand. 

 

It was a long time before Harry managed to tear his eyes away from Malfoy and get to work, and almost as soon as he’d done so, Malfoy spoke up.

 

“How did you start using Pensieves?” he asked, never taking his eyes off the shimmering web of magic he’d created.

 

Harry set down his quill. “Why do you ask?”

 

“You’re not my typical customer.” Malfoy said. 

 

“Oh.” Harry hadn’t been expecting that response. “What’s your typical customer like?” 

 

Malfoy raised his wand above the web of spellwork and extracted a single strand of magic from the tight knot in the centre. “Old, stuffy … generally a bit of a nightmare…”

 

The implication that Malfoy didn’t think he was a nightmare took Harry by surprise, and it him took a moment to formulate an answer. 

 

“Erm, it was recommended to me by my Mind Healer after the war,” he admitted, looking pointedly out of the window as he spoke. “She felt that by watching memories back, and viewing the memories of others involved in the battle, it would help me to put some distance between my thoughts and everything that had happened.”

 

Malfoy had finally turned away from the Pensieve and was looking at Harry with a serious look on his face. “Did it work?” 

 

Harry ran his fingers through his hair, self-conscious under Malfoy’s scrutiny. “Yeah, it did. Still does, really. Hence why I’d like to get it fixed.”

 

Malfoy nodded slowly. “Understood. Well, for what it’s worth, I am making some progress. I’ve untangled the top layer of faulty charmwork, but I need to make sure it’s completely stable before I try to retrieve your memory.”

 

“Brilliant,” Harry grinned. “Would you like another cup of tea?” 

 

Malfoy smiled back at him. “I wouldn’t turn one down.”

 

Harry wandered downstairs, no longer uncomfortable leaving Malfoy alone in his house. _Perhaps he isn’t as much of a git as he used to be_ , he mused as he boiled the kettle. His thoughts were interrupted a moment later as Kreacher came shuffling into the kitchen. 

 

“Master has a guest,” the old Elf mumbled, tugging at the pillowcase he wore. “Most irregular … Master doesn’t usually invite guests into his home…”

 

“Yeah. Malfoy’s fixing the Pensieve for me,” Harry explained.

 

Kreacher’s bat-like ears twitched. “Malfoy? Abraxas Malfoy?”

 

Harry frowned. “Who’s Abraxus—? Never mind. No, it’s Draco Malfoy.”

 

“Mistress Walburga was most impressed by the noble House of Malfoy … a most respectable family…” Kreacher muttered, his bloodshot eyes bulging with even more intensity than usual.

 

Harry grimaced. He knew this would happen; it was only a matter of time before Kreacher started throwing himself to the floor at Malfoy’s feet. “Right, well you’re not to bother him. I mean it, Kreacher. Stay away from him, please.”

 

Kreacher’s expression soured. “Master never listens to Kreacher’s advice … foolish half-blood…” he groused as he skulked off, disappearing into the hallway.

 

Harry finished preparing the drinks and, after a moment’s hesitation, took out a packet of ginger nut biscuits. Malfoy  _ was _ going to fix his Pensieve, after all.

 

Harry saw no further sign of Kreacher as he returned to the study, and when he pushed open the heavy oak door, he found Malfoy lounging in the desk chair, looking very much as if he owned the place. It didn’t escape Harry’s notice that he was still wearing his glasses.

 

“Merlin, have I passed some kind of test?” he teased when he caught sight of the biscuits.

 

Harry set the mugs down on the desk and rolled his eyes. “I can take them away just as quickly as I can offer them, you know. And get out of my chair!”

 

Malfoy made no effort to get up. Instead, he shrugged off Harry’s threat and reached out to take the packet of biscuits from him. For the briefest moment, Malfoy’s fingertips grazed Harry’s, sending what felt almost like a jolt of wild magic along Harry’s arm.

 

Harry froze as adrenaline flooded his veins, but Malfoy seemed oblivious to the effect he’d had; he reclined even further in the desk chair and took a biscuit out of the packet.

 

After a few moments of standing awkwardly beside Malfoy, Harry perched on the edge of the suspended glass desk. The charms holding it in the air were stronger than they looked: it didn’t even wobble.

 

“Ginger nuts…” Malfoy mused. “Not a bad choice. Not a brilliant one, either, but I’d have expected nothing less from you.”

 

“What counts as a brilliant choice?” Harry asked, reaching out to take one.

 

Malfoy took a moment to think. “Dark chocolate digestives would be the best option, closely followed by custard creams.”

 

Harry snorted. “Custard creams? What are you, an old lady?” 

 

“Yes, Potter,” Malfoy replied with a smirk. “Your investigative training has served you well. I am indeed an old lady.”

 

“I knew it!” Harry grinned. “You’re looking pretty good for an old lady, though.” His cheeks started burning before he’d even finished speaking, and he felt his blush deepen even further as Malfoy raised an eyebrow and leaned further back in Harry’s desk chair, clearly enjoying his discomfort. 

 

“You know, Potter, I think that might just be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. I might just have to store the memory of it for my own Pensieve…” He trailed off, then sighed. “And speaking of Pensieves, I really ought to get back to repairing yours.” 

 

Harry realised he didn't want Malfoy to go back to work yet. They’d been getting on so well he wanted to keep the conversation flowing, but felt like he’d already shared enough; it was Malfoy’s turn to talk.

 

“How did you end up repairing Pensieves?” Harry asked, causing Malfoy to pause halfway up from the chair.

 

Malfoy shrugged and sat back down. “I fell into it, if I’m honest. I didn’t have too many options after school, and I knew I was good at fixing things…”

 

“Because of the Vanishing Cabinet, right?” Harry interrupted, before he could stop himself.

 

“Yes,” Malfoy said stiffly. A long, uncomfortable silence settled over them, and suddenly Malfoy couldn’t quite meet Harry’s eye. In an instant, the progress they’d made over the last few hours seemed to vanish; they were back to being Potter and Malfoy, rivals on opposite sides of a war. Just as it became excruciating, Malfoy cleared his throat and carried on. “I signed up for a charmwork apprenticeship, and when I finished I was offered a job at Precious Memories.”

 

“Do you enjoy it?” Harry asked, eager to move onto a less sensitive subject.

 

Malfoy shrugged. “It’s not bad. It’s rewarding when I resolve a particularly messy piece of magic, and I enjoy using the skills I gained before the war for a good purpose.” He stopped abruptly, as if he’d said too much.

 

“I can imagine,” Harry murmured.

 

“But that’s enough prying about me,” Malfoy said. “What’s the great Harry Potter up to these days? I’m half-surprised you aren’t married to the Weaslette with twenty ginger kids by now..” 

 

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Nah, Ginny and I are just mates. She’s been with Dean for ages, now.”

 

Malfoy shrugged and reached for another biscuit. “Some other witch, then. If the Prophet’s anything to go by, you certainly have no shortage of suitors...”

 

Harry laughed. “The Prophet’s full of shit. Half the women they say I’m with are practically family members, and the rest are strangers. If I’d had that many girlfriends, my dick would have fallen off by now!” 

 

“Fair point,” Malfoy smirked.

 

Besides,” Harry added, focusing every bit of energy on keeping his tone casual, “It’s been boyfriends, mostly.”

 

Malfoy’s half-eaten biscuit slipped through his fingers and clattered on the floor. “Bloody hell. How do you keep that out of the papers?”

 

Harry rolled his eyes. “I have friends in the right places. Besides, I’m bi, not gay. I’m not sure your average Prophet reader could handle an article about that – I doubt they even know that bisexuality exists.” 

 

Malfoy grimaced. “Fair point. They’re not the brightest.”

 

“Exactly,” Harry said, unable to keep the note of bitterness out of his voice as he continued. “They see what they want to see: if I’m at a bar with a female friend, they assume assume it’s a date; if I take a boyfriend out to dinner, they assume we’re mates or colleagues.”

 

Malfoy took a moment to consider this. His silence and neutral expression after such a personal admission left Harry feeling oddly exposed.

 

“What about you?” Harry asked in an attempt to push the focus of the conversation back onto Malfoy. “No pure-blood Malfoy heirs running around your offensively huge house?”

 

Malfoy shook his head. “No, definitely not. And unlike you, I don’t have an offensively huge house. I have a perfectly reasonable flat. And—” He broke off abruptly as the study door eased open with a creak. 

 

Kreacher crept in, muttering away to himself, apparently oblivious that his entrance had been noticed.

 

Harry’s heart sank. “I knew this was going to happen,” he sighed. He raised his voice to capture Kreacher’s attention. “Kreacher, this is Draco Malfoy. Malfoy, this is my House-elf, Kreacher...”

 

Kreacher rushed over and dropped down into a bow so low his long nose almost touched the floor. “Such an honour to meet you, Sir. Kreacher is humbled…”

 

“Erm, hello,” Malfoy said cautiously. He looked faintly alarmed – which, Harry reasoned, was perfectly understandable. Kreacher’s behaviour certainly wasn’t normal by House-elf standards.

 

“He has a bit of a fetish for pure bloodlines,” Harry explained.

 

Malfoy blinked. “Oh.”

 

Kreacher seized the silence that followed as an opportunity to launch into a sickeningly servile little speech, which he delivered whilst staring unblinkingly at Malfoy. “The Houses of Malfoy and Black have long been entwined … if there’s anything Kreacher can get for Master Malfoy, anything at all … it would be Kreacher’s great pleasure to serve you...”

 

“Can you leave us alone now, Kreacher?” Harry asked loudly, managing to sound infinitely more patient than he felt. “That’s an order,” he added when Kreacher showed no signs of moving.

 

Kreacher did as he’d been told, but it was a slow and resentful exit which featured several long pauses where he gazed back at Malfoy over his bony shoulder. It was all incredibly unsettling.

 

“Sorry about that,” Harry said when he’d left. “He’s a bit of an odd one…”

 

“That’s putting it lightly,” Malfoy agreed, still staring at the doorway. He shuddered slightly. “I’d better get back to your Pensieve.” 

 

Just for a moment, he looked reluctant, but then he drained the last of his tea, got out of Harry’s desk chair and went back to work.

 

Harry resumed his position in the chair and took a moment to seethe. He was furious with Kreacher for interrupting them when he had. It had ruined a perfect opportunity for him to find out more about Malfoy.

 

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Kreacher kept to Harry’s order and didn’t return, and Malfoy was so engrossed in fixing the Pensieve that he didn’t even look up from it while he ate the sandwich Harry made him for lunch. Harry’s time, meanwhile, was split equally between working on his case report and gawping at Malfoy.

 

Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t help but find Malfoy incredibly distracting. The glasses were the worst offenders, but there was more to it than that: Malfoy’s hair, for a start – it was as fair as it had ever been at school but cut short in such a way that made it look effortlessly neat. Then there was the way that every so often, he bent down to examine the spellwork from a different angle. Harry couldn’t help but appreciate the narrow tailoring of his trousers and the way they clung to his arse. It was no wonder Harry’s case report was taking longer than usual.

 

Malfoy left late that afternoon, after explaining that he was making steady progress and felt optimistic about releasing the trapped memory.

 

Once he’d gone, Harry wandered back up to the study and looked at the Pensieve. It was still full of mist, but the haze was much thinner now; if he looked closely, he could see the occasional flicker of movement from the memory trapped beneath it. 

 

As he turned away from the Pensieve, a glint of gold caught his eye. Malfoy had forgotten his glasses: they were sitting on the edge of the bookshelf. Harry picked them up and examined them. They were pleasingly light – the frames were obviously designer and the lenses were much thinner than those of Harry’s glasses – but away from Malfoy’s face, they were nothing special.

 

Harry sighed as he folded them up and put them back on the shelf. It was ridiculous: he was halfway to being hard just from the thought of Malfoy wearing them.

 

As he stood there, he absently stroked his cock through his jeans, letting himself enjoy the pressure. His body responded with surprising intensity: it felt incredibly good, as if his arousal had been building up all day, leaving him in desperate need of relief. He was fully hard in no time, and craving more.

 

There was no point in fighting it. He made his way over to his desk chair, tugging open his jeans on the way, and all but fell down into it, his fingers already curling around the length of his cock. 

 

_ Much better _ , Harry thought. He let his eyes fall shut as he moved his hand slowly, bringing his foreskin over the head of his cock before pulling it back, swiping away the pre-come at the tip with his finger after every few strokes. As the pleasure built, his thoughts remained firmly fixed on Malfoy.

 

At first Harry simply thought of him as he’d looked earlier that day, bending over the Pensieve in those impossibly well-tailored trousers, but it wasn’t long before he was picturing Malfoy on his knees, wearing the gold-rimmed glasses as he sucked Harry’s cock.

 

The change in fantasy made all the difference: he couldn't help but thrust up into his fist, his breath coming in sharp bursts as he chased his climax. He reached down with his left hand to cup his balls, which had drawn up, full and tight, in anticipation – and that was all it took.

 

Harry came with a stifled gasp, far quicker than he’d expected. His release pulsed from his prick, spilling over his hand and onto his thigh.

 

When he’d caught his breath and his heart rate had returned to normal, Harry cast a wandless cleaning charm and got slowly to his feet, feeling unsettled.

 

“Fuck,” he muttered to himself. “I just wanked over Malfoy.”

  
  


~*~*~*~

  
  


By the time Harry arrived at Ginny and Dean’s that evening to watch the West Ham match, he was more confused than ever. Still, he pushed away all thoughts of Malfoy as he stepped out of the Floo. He was hoping that this evening would act as a distraction from all that.

 

He felt himself start to relax before he’d even finished taking off his shoes. He loved Ginny and Dean’s cosy flat. There was something incredibly comforting about the way it was packed full of knick-knacks and bright colours: it was every inch the homely haven, and the polar opposite of Dean’s ultra-stylish design work.

 

“Harry, is that you?" Dean called out from the kitchen.

 

“Yeah,” Harry replied as he flopped down onto the left-hand side of the sofa and put his feet up on the coffee table. 

 

“I’ll be with you in a minute!” Dean shouted.

 

Harry shifted against the cushions, making himself comfortable. The TV was already on, but with the volume turned down, so the words of the pundits were lost to the sound of Dean pottering around in the kitchen.

 

Harry often came round to Ginny and Dean’s on Saturday evenings during the football season. It was a long-running tradition that had started when he’d first moved to London after school and found that Dean had moved into a flat in a mostly Muggle area just fifteen minutes away. Dean was the only one of Harry’s friends who was into football, so when Harry realised he’d never get a TV to work at Grimmauld Place, they’d fallen into a routine of watching the Saturday evening matches together. 

 

When Dean had started dating Ginny a couple of years ago, almost everyone else in their circle of friends – even  _ Ron _ – had been convinced that it would strain Harry’s friendship with Dean, no matter how many times Harry told them he was fine with it. But Harry really  _ was _ fine with it: as far as he was concerned, it just meant he got to spend time with two of his best mates at once. Footie nights had got even better when Ginny moved into the flat last Christmas. She’d just signed for the Harpies at the time and was sick to the back teeth of Quidditch, so she’d started watching the football as an alternative. She’d been hooked within a week, and these days it was hard to tell whether she or Dean enjoyed shouting at the ref more.

 

Harry was just beginning to wonder where Ginny was when Dean appeared, carrying a huge bowl of crisps. Three cans of Carling floated through the air behind him, dipping perilously low with every step he took; Dean had never been great at wandless magic. 

 

“Ginny’s in the shower,” he explained as he set the refreshments down on the coffee table beside Harry’s socked feet. “Apparently Gwenog pushed them really hard during their afternoon training session, so if I were you, I wouldn’t ask how her day was.”

 

“Right,” Harry grinned. “Thanks for the heads up.”

 

Dean grabbed a handful of crisps and settled down on the left side of the sofa. “So, how’s Ministry life?” he asked when he’d finished crunching away at them.

 

Harry sighed. “Busy, and not in a good way. We’re snowed under with raids. I’ve spent half of the last two Saturdays doing paperwork and I’m still nowhere near caught up!”

 

Dean grimaced. “That’s rubbish. Sounds like NEWTs all over again!”

 

Harry had been hoping for an opportunity to moan, and he seized it with enthusiasm. He was still grumbling away when Ginny strolled into the room ten minutes later, just as the teams came out onto the pitch. She was pink as a Pygmy Puff from the heat of the water, with her long red hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. 

 

“How’s that for timing?” she beamed. “I thought for a minute I was going to miss kick-off!” She dropped down onto the middle sofa cushion and reached up to ruffle Harry’s hair. “Hello, stranger! How are you?” 

 

Harry didn't get a chance to answer, though, as the starting whistle blew and Dean held up his hands pleadingly. “Save the chat for half time, yeah?” he begged.

 

Ginny rolled her eyes – nothing came between Dean and his beloved West Ham – and they lapsed into silence, all concentrating on the match. 

 

As it happened, they needn’t have bothered: it was a frustratingly dull first half, with no goals and no near misses, either.

 

“So, I hear you've pulled,” Ginny said as the half-time whistle blew, flashing Harry a wry grin.

 

Harry frowned. “What?”

 

“Oh, it’s just something Ron said the other day.”

 

“Why, what’s Ron said?” Harry asked, instantly suspicious. He wasn't at all keen on the mischievous glint in Ginny’s eyes.

 

“Only that you've decided to abandon us all in favour of a spending time with Draco ferret-face Malfoy. I thought someone had slipped him a draught of Confusing Concoction at first, but then Hermione confirmed it!” She shook her head in disbelief.

 

“It’s not like that!” Harry said, annoyed when his words came out sounding rather more defensive than he’d intended. “He’s fixing my Pensieve.”

 

Ginny raised her eyebrows suggestively. “Oh, is  _ that _ what you call it?”

 

“Is that what you call  _ what _ ?” Harry asked, stubbornly refusing to let her win.

 

Ginny sighed in mock-exasperation. “When two not-exactly-straight blokes spend several cosy Saturdays in a row together, obviously!”

 

Harry’s stomach leapt up into his throat at the suggestion, but he did his best not to show it. “It definitely hasn’t been cosy,” he countered. “And besides, what makes you think he’s not straight?” 

 

Ginny blinked, her teasing tone forgotten in an instant. “Are you joking?” She nudged Dean. “He’s joking, right?” 

 

Dean shook his head and got to his feet. “I want nothing to do with this,” he said, holding up his hands as he escaped into the kitchen.

 

Disappointed by her boyfriend’s lack of enthusiasm, Ginny turned back to Harry. “Malfoy used to date Boris Volchanov – you know, the Bulgarian Beater. It was all over the Prophet a year or so ago.”

 

Harry, who made a point of avoiding the Prophet like the plague, was speechless. 

 

“I know, I know,” Ginny groaned, misreading his expression for a look of disappointment. “The Prophet’s a shitrag, I’m well aware … but I like to read the rumours about my fellow Quidditch players. That way, I can try to put them off during matches…” she trailed off wistfully, then brought her attention back to the subject at hand. “But anyway, they published some fairly indecent photos of the two of them together, if you know what I mean, and apparently they broke up not long after.”

 

“Oh. Fair enough.” Harry tried to look casual, but his heart was well on its way to doing a Wronski Feint. Malfoy liked men. More than that, he liked men and was possibly single...

 

“So, what’s he like these days?” Ginny asked, interrupting Harry’s train of thought. “Still horrible?”

 

Harry briefly considered lying, but he knew it was futile. Ginny was a ruthless interrogator; even with all of his Ministry training, he didn't stand a chance. “Erm. He’s alright, actually,” he began. “Definitely less of a prick than he was at school.”

 

“And…?”

 

“He’s looking pretty good,” Harry conceded through gritted teeth.

 

Ginny gave a victorious little whoop. “I  _ knew _ it!” she gloated. “I bloody love it when I’m right!”

 

Harry buried his head in his hands. “It’s not funny, Gin. I think I  _ like  _ him.”

 

Ginny wrinkled her nose. “Well, I can't say I’m not disappointed at your lack of taste…” She paused at Harry’s hurt expression, then carried on. “But it would do you good to get some action, even if it  _ is _ with ferret-face. You’re practically a monk these days.” 

 

Harry gave her a gentle shove. “Shut up, Gin. I’ve been busy with work!”

 

“I’m just saying, you didn't save the world so you could spend your twenties sexually frustrated! You should definitely make a move.”

 

Harry shook his head. “No way. I don't think he’s interested in me – and I’d never live it down if I made a move and he laughed in my face.”

 

Ginny tutted. “Where’s your Gryffindor courage?”

 

Thankfully, Harry was saved from having to consider his response: the second half was about to start, and at that moment Dean returned with a fresh set of cold beers. 

 

“Is it safe to come in?” he asked. “Or are you still gossiping away like a pair of Witch Weekly subscribers?”

 

Ginny scowled in mock outrage. “Oi, my mum reads Witch Weekly!”

 

“Exactly!” Dean grinned. “Now shush, it’s starting.”

 

The second half of the match was much better than the first. West Ham scored within the opening minute and were three nil up by the final whistle, which made for good viewing and had the added bonus of putting Dean in an excellent mood.

 

Still, Harry resisted Dean’s offer of a third beer and left quickly after the end of the match, much to Ginny’s obvious disappointment. He was eager to avoid a proper grilling, and more than a little afraid of where it might lead.

  
  


~*~*~*~

  
  


As much as Harry had been looking forward to Malfoy’s next visit, his friends had other plans. After two weekends of cancelled plans in a row, they’d had enough: ‘ _ You see more of him than you do of us! _ ’ Ron had complained when Harry suggested he might have to bail on the quarterly Weasley Quidditch friendly.

 

In the end, after much moaning from Ron and no small amount of begging from Ginny and George – not to mention a threat that if Harry didn’t come along, he might just find himself acting as the test subject for the next Wizard Wheeze – Harry had reluctantly agreed to take up his usual role as Beater alongside Charlie.

 

If it had been any other weekend, he’d have been elated to be playing alongside his surrogate family, but he couldn’t help but feel a bit miffed to be missing out on another day with Malfoy. As weekend drew closer, he even found himself half hoping that the weather would be too bad to play.

 

He had no such luck, though: Saturday morning sided firmly with the Weasleys. It dawned bright and sunny, leaving Harry with no choice but to pull on his Quidditch gear. He reluctantly got ready, trying his best to get in the mood to play, and went down to meet Malfoy by the Floo.

 

When Malfoy arrived, he did a double take. “Do you often wear Quidditch leathers for lounging around the house?” he asked, looking almost flustered. “Not that I’m complaining, mind. It’s a significant improvement on your usual attire.”

 

Harry frowned. “What’s wrong with my usual clothes?” he asked, before thinking better of it. “Actually, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know. And I’m not just wearing these for the sake of it: I’m going out.”

 

As Harry explained his plans for the day, he watched carefully for any sign of disappointment, but Malfoy simply nodded. His expression remained carefully neutral; he wasn’t giving anything away. 

 

The lack of response was a little unnerving, and despite his best efforts, Harry found himself babbling. “You’ll have to cope without my amazing cups of tea, I’m afraid. You know where the kettle is – or you could just ask Kreacher if you’re feeling lazy. He’s practically in love with you, so he probably won’t poison it.” 

 

“In love with me?” Malfoy smirked. “Well, I can be pretty charming. Though, he’s not exactly my type. I tend to go for my own species, for a start … and I have nothing against shorter blokes, but under three foot is pushing it a bit.”

 

Harry tried to look natural as a pulse of interest surged through him at Malfoy’s subtle confirmation of his sexuality. “You’d best keep your distance from him then,” he teased. “I’m sure he has his eye on you.”

 

“I’ll be careful,” Malfoy said, nodding earnestly in a show of mock seriousness.

 

“Good. I probably won’t be back until late this afternoon, so if I don’t see you…” Harry trailed off, not entirely sure what he wanted to say.

 

“I’ll see myself out,” Malfoy supplied. “I doubt I’ll finish fixing it today, anyway. I haven’t even finished stripping back the charmwork, let alone got started with the rebuild.”

 

Harry nodded, then picked up his broom and stepped into the Floo, leaving Malfoy alone.

 

~*~ ~*~ ~*~

 

Harry arrived home midway through the afternoon, covered in mud and looking as though he’d been dragged through a hedge backwards – which was fitting, as that was exactly what his broom, a little over-excited after several weeks of neglect, had done to him.

 

He stepped gingerly out of the Floo and bent down to pull off his filthy boots and socks, wincing as his back twinged in what was surely a warning sign as to how sore he’d be tomorrow morning. He forgot all about the pain, though, when he caught sight of the pinstriped jacket folded neatly over the back of the sofa. He hadn’t completely missed out on the chance to spend a bit of time with Malfoy, after all.

 

Harry padded along to the kitchen, wincing at the shock of the cool tiles beneath his bare feet. He set the kettle to boil, then headed back into the hallway. “Malfoy?” he called from the foot of the stairs. “Malfoy, do you want a cup of tea?”

 

When no response came, Harry assumed Malfoy was too deeply absorbed in his web of charms to hear. He dashed upstairs to ask again. “Hello? Draco?” 

 

Harry pushed open the door to his study with a muted creak, and came to a sudden stop as the reason for Malfoy’s lack of response became apparent. Instead of standing above the Pensieve, Malfoy was bent low over it with his head fully immersed in the bowl: he was viewing a memory. 

 

Harry’s stomach clenched in a strange mixture of relief and worry. He stood watching for a few minutes, but Malfoy didn’t surface – he was clearly engrossed in the scene before him.

 

Harry had never been patient, and now was no exception. He crept over and stood beside Malfoy, wishing there was a way he could see what Malfoy was seeing. Then he noticed the two glass vials on the table beside the Pensieve.

 

Very carefully, so as not to brush against Malfoy’s arm, Harry reached over and picked up the first vial. It was tightly stoppered and filled with swirling mist: this wasn’t the memory Malfoy was watching. Harry turned the vial in his hand so he could read his messy scrawl. ‘ _Top of the tower, 30 June 1997_ ,’ it read, and then, underneath, in an almost illegibly tiny script, ‘ _A. Dumbledore, S. Snape, D. Malfoy’_.

 

Harry’s heart swooped in his chest; he almost laughed out loud. Against the odds, Malfoy had succeeded in rescuing the trapped memory. 

 

The feeling of relief was short-lived, though. If Malfoy had removed the memory from the Pensieve, he’d almost certainly watched it. And even worse, if Malfoy wasn’t watching the memory from the top of the tower, what was he watching instead?

 

Harry’s gaze fell on the second vial, which lay empty, inches from Malfoy’s fingertips. Malfoy must have taken it from the cabinet of memories on the bookshelf. Harry reached for it, stomach sinking, and read the label.

 

‘ _ Sectumsempra, 6 May 1997 – H. Potter, D. Malfoy _ ’

 

For the space of a heartbeat, Harry felt completely numb with horror. Then fury rushed through his veins, searing hot, at the confirmation that one of his most personal memories was being snooped on. He knew the dangers of disturbing someone while they were using a Pensieve –  _ knew _ that pulling someone out mid-way through a memory could destabilize or even destroy it – but in that moment, he didn’t care. He put a hand on Malfoy’s shoulder and squeezed tight, digging his fingers in hard enough to bruise as he tugged Malfoy up.

 

Malfoy startled in Harry’s grasp. He tore his head from the Pensieve and stood up straight, shoving Harry’s hand away. He opened his mouth to speak, but Harry didn’t give him the chance to get any words out.

 

“What the hell are you doing?” Harry hissed. 

 

“It had my name on it,” Malfoy said defensively, though his face was rapidly turning a blotchy shade of pink, which only served to confirm to Harry that he knew he was in the wrong. 

 

“So?” Harry fumed. “It’s private! How dare you watch my memories – and while I’m not even  _ here _ !”

 

Malfoy took several paces back. “Look, it isn’t like that—”

 

“Is this what you do every time I leave the room?” Harry interrupted, stepping forward to close the distance Malfoy had created. It was a mistake. Something inside Malfoy seemed to snap; in an instant, he was just as angry as Harry.

 

“Don’t be an idiot,” he spat, drawing himself up to his full height. “Of course not. I’ve finally managed to get the Pensieve working and I needed to check how the remaining charmwork runs with one of your memories. You weren’t here, I saw the cabinet of memories…”

 

Harry’s mind was reeling, showing him an interminable montage of all the memories he most hoped Malfoy hadn’t seen. “How many have you watched?” he asked, his voice a deadly whisper. 

 

Malfoy held up his hands. “Just these two. I swear.”

 

Harry frowned. “I don’t believe you.”

 

“Well that’s your problem, because it’s the truth.” Malfoy said, jutting out his chin. “And besides, your memories are completely inaccurate! You haven’t captured me properly at all – I look like a fucking monster in both of them!”

 

Malfoy’s outburst doused Harry’s fury like a bucket of cold water. Even though he was being a complete prick, even though he was  _ definitely _ the one in the wrong, Malfoy’s suggestion that Harry saw him as a monster couldn’t have been further off the mark.

 

“No, you don’t,” Harry sighed. “You look like a terrified kid.”

 

Malfoy stared at him, daring him to say more, but Harry kept his mouth firmly shut. There was nothing he could say about the past that wouldn’t make matters worse. Malfoy didn’t speak either, and a crushingly thick silence bloomed between them, filling all four corners of the room.

 

It was deeply uncomfortable and went on for at least a minute longer before it was finally broken, not by Harry or Malfoy, but by a quiet cough from the doorway. 

 

They both spun round to find Kreacher lurking there, caressing the door frame with his long fingers. When he realised he’d captured their attention, he gave a ridiculously low bow. “Masters … if you would come down to the dining room…”

 

“Not now, Kreacher,” Harry said savagely, and immediately regretted it. “Sorry.”

 

As usual, Kreacher paid Harry no mind. “As Kreacher was saying before Master Potter’s rude interruption, there are fresh scones and clotted cream downstairs...”

“I could eat some scones,” Malfoy said quietly.

 

It was a turn of events so unexpected that Harry’s jaw dropped. He stared at Malfoy, rendered momentarily speechless by his sheer cheek. Didn’t the git realise they were in the middle of an argument? But then again, Kreacher’s offer had ended that awful silence … and Kreacher’s baking skills were pretty good these days…

 

“Fine,” he hissed. “I’m going for a shower.” He pointed at the Pensieve. “We can talk about  _ this _ properly when I’m done.” 

  
Malfoy nodded slowly. “Okay.”

 

Harry watched as Kreacher led Malfoy downstairs in the direction of the dining room, fawning over him with every step, then dashed up to the top floor and locked himself in the bathroom.

 

The shower was a good idea. Harry let the warm water course over his skin, washing away the mud from the match and soothing his aching muscles. In turn, the steam had the unexpected bonus of slowing his racing thoughts. 

 

Away from the scene of the ‘crime’, Harry grudgingly admitted to himself that he’d overreacted. After all, what had he expected to happen, leaving Draco Malfoy alone in his house next to a cabinet full of his most private memories? It wasn’t as if  _ he’d _ never snooped on someone else’s private memories.

 

Still, Malfoy’s choice of memory made Harry’s stomach squirm. That awful day in the girls’ toilets was probably the worst scene Malfoy could have watched. It couldn’t be helped, though, Harry mused as he turned off the water. All he could do now was face Malfoy and try to diffuse the tension.

 

Harry dried himself off and stumbled through to his bedroom to get dressed. After a quick search through his wardrobe, he pulled on one of his nicer pairs of jeans and a slightly creased red t-shirt.

 

When he finally made it down to the dining room, Harry half expected to find that Malfoy had made an escape, but there he was, sitting at the dining room table in his smart suit and gold-rimmed glasses, tucking into what appeared to be his third scone.

 

The apology speech Harry had been planning in his head evaporated. “I can’t believe you’ve started eating them without me,” he said.

 

Malfoy shrugged. “Your Elf told me to. He said you weren't particularly keen on scones.”

 

“Of course he did,” Harry growled.

 

As if on cue, Kreacher rushed into the room and gave a low bow. “Is there anything Master Malfoy requires? More cream? Jam?” 

 

“No, thank you,” Malfoy said, looking slightly unnerved by Kreacher’s enthusiasm.

 

“What about me?” Harry asked, but Kreacher was already shuffling away. 

 

Harry clenched his jaw and took a seat next to Malfoy. “I resent that he calls you Master,” he griped as he spread a thick layer of jam on a scone. “You don’t even bloody live here!”

 

Malfoy grimaced. “It is a bit odd … though I have to say, the scones are more than worth the inconvenience of dealing with his strange hosting skills.”

 

Harry fought back a hum of pleasure as he took a bite of his scone; they really were delicious. “As I said earlier, he’s in love with you.”

 

“I think you might be right,” Malfoy agreed.

 

As they ate, the awkwardness from before slowly seeped back into the atmosphere of the room. Once or twice, Malfoy looked as if he was struggling to decide whether to say something. It took no small amount of effort, but Harry managed to keep his own lips shut until Malfoy finally spoke.

 

“I’m sorry for intruding on your memories,” he said quietly, keeping his grey eyes focused unblinkingly on the table. 

 

Harry sighed. “It’s fine. Well no, it isn’t  _ fine  _ ... but I did overreact a bit. Sorry.”

 

Malfoy nodded. “That’s okay.” 

 

“For what it’s worth, the  _ Sectumsempra _ memory is one of my worst,” Harry said. “It never gets any easier to watch.” 

 

“It wasn’t much fun for me, either,” Malfoy murmured, unable to meet Harry’s eye.

 

Figuring things couldn’t get much more awkward, Harry pressed on. “I’m guessing you watched the trapped memory in full, too?”

 

Malfoy sighed and reluctantly looked up at Harry. “Yes. I knew what it was immediately, and I wondered where you’d got it. At first I wondered if it might have belonged to Severus.”

 

Harry shook his head. “No, it was mine. I was wearing an invisibility cloak.”

 

Malfoy took a moment to digest this. “I gathered. I had no idea anyone else was there that night … but you saw everything.”

 

“Yeah,” Harry agreed uneasily.

 

Malfoy nodded. “My own memory of that night … it’s one of  _ my _ worst.” 

 

Harry remembered the all-consuming terror he’d seen on Malfoy’s face at the top of the tower. “I can imagine.”

 

Another silence stretched out between them, as dense as Kreacher’s scones. Malfoy broke it, clearing his throat uncomfortably. “It’s a shame I had to bugger things up. I thought we were getting on pretty well,” he said lightly, though the look in his eyes betrayed his caution. 

 

“We were,” Harry conceded. “I suppose the past is just a sensitive topic.”

 

“That’s an understatement,” Malfoy said with a wry smile. 

 

It renewed Harry’s confidence in an instant; the risk of fighting had finally subsided. “It was all a massive mess, wasn’t it?”

 

“A complete disaster,” Malfoy agreed. “I for one am amazed that we both lived to see the end of it … let alone to see the day where I’m eating Elf-made scones in your dining room. It’s almost as if we’re friends.” 

 

“We could be?” Harry suggested without thinking. “Only if you want to be, of course,” he added hastily, feeling his cheeks begin to burn crimson. What was he thinking? Any second, Malfoy was going to sneer at him; going to turn down the offer of friendship just as Harry had, all those years ago.

 

But Malfoy just nodded slowly and took another bite of his scone. “Okay. Why not?”

 

“Brilliant,” Harry grinned as a rush of warmth spread through his body.  _ Friends _ . It was nothing short of a miracle.

 

Harry’s relief was short-lived, though: in spite of Malfoy’s impeccable table manners, the last bite of his scone had somehow left a smear of cream on his face. It looked so out of place, so uncharacteristically messy, that Harry couldn’t help but stare as an unwelcome stab of arousal twisted, knife-sharp, in the pit of his stomach. 

 

“Draco…” he began, Malfoy’s first name feeling foreign on his lips.

 

“Hmm?”

 

“You’ve got a bit of...”

 

Draco raised an eyebrow, completely oblivious. “A bit of what?” 

 

Harry cleared his throat, willing his voice not to waver. “Cream. There’s a bit of cream just above your lip.”

 

“Where?” Draco asked, making no effort to find it.

 

Harry didn’t trust himself to speak, so he opted for action instead. Draco sat very still as Harry reached out and wiped the smear of cream away. His skin was as soft as silk – so soft that Harry wondered, rather absurdly, whether he even needed to shave – and Harry let his fingers linger for just a second longer than was appropriate.

 

“Got it?” Draco murmured.

 

“Yeah.” 

 

Draco was watching Harry closely, his expression perfectly neutral. The room felt alive with an entirely new kind of tension, as taut and tightly coiled as a spring. 

 

Just as it became unbearable, as Harry was about to succumb to the urge to  _ do something, anything _ , Draco leaned back and cleared his throat.

 

“I should probably update you on my progress with your Pensieve,” he said. 

 

“Okay,” Harry agreed, struggling to contain his disappointment. 

 

“As you saw, I’ve managed to release the trapped memory and repair the basic charmwork to bring it back to an operational state. All that’s left for me to do is add the custom layer of spellwork to tailor its images to your unique recollection style.”

 

“Great,” Harry said, though he didn’t entirely understand what Draco was talking about. “How long is that likely to take?”

 

Draco thought about this for a moment. “Not long. I expect I’ll only need one more appointment to finish it.”

 

“Oh, wow. Not long at all, then.” Harry took a sip of his lukewarm tea. “I suppose you’ll be working on someone else’s Pensieve a couple of weeks from now,” he mused.

 

Draco shook his head with a wry smile. “Probably not. I don’t usually work on Saturdays.”

 

Harry blinked. “What?” 

 

“Mmm. I switched shifts with one of my colleagues when I saw your name on the callout rota.” Draco’s tone was carefully casual, but he looked at Harry intently as he spoke.

 

Harry stared. “Why?”

 

Draco shrugged. “I was curious, I suppose. And yes, perhaps I was hoping your Pensieve had frozen on a really dirty memory.” 

 

Harry snorted. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

 

“It hasn’t been a disappointment,” Draco said, still watching Harry closely. “You’re good company … if a little distracting.”

 

Harry’s stomach squirmed. “Distracting?” he asked.

 

“Mmm,” Draco nodded. “Not in a bad way, mind.” 

 

Harry waited for Draco to elaborate, but he just took another sip of his tea, clearly enjoying the suspense he’d created. As much as Harry wanted to avoid pressing Draco, he needed to know more. “Go on…” he said.

 

Draco made a show of finishing his drink and setting his cup down before he spoke. “Well, like I said a couple of weeks ago, you’re not my typical customer. You’re rather easier on the eye, for a start.”

 

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. “Oh,” he murmured.

 

“Oh, indeed,” Draco agreed with a wicked smile. “And that’s quite a compliment, given that you always dress as if you’ve just rolled out of bed.”

 

“Shut up,” Harry said, grinning. The snarky comment made his mind up: before any rational thoughts or doubts could creep in, he leaned in and captured Draco’s lips in a kiss.

 

For a split second, nothing happened. They sat there, perfectly still, lips touching, as if frozen in place by a spell. 

 

Then Draco responded. He kissed back fiercely, immediately dominating the kiss, and Harry was perfectly happy to let him. Within seconds, Draco’s hands were on the back of Harry’s neck, moving up to thread his fingers through Harry’s hair, pulling Harry closer as he traced Harry’s bottom lip with his tongue. It was deliciously sexy, wonderfully needy, and Harry couldn’t help but moan approvingly into the kiss. 

 

The sound seemed to bring Draco back to reality: he froze, then suddenly pulled away. The faint flush on Draco’s cheeks didn’t escape Harry’s notice.

 

They sat staring at one another in breathless silence, each waiting for the other to make a move. 

 

“I should go,” Draco said quietly after what seemed like an age. His chair scraped against the floor as he got to his feet, shattering the fragile atmosphere. “Same time next week?”

 

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, still slightly dazed from the kiss. “See you on Saturday.”

 

Draco nodded. “Okay. I’ll see you then, Harry.” He flashed Harry a brief, sheepish smile before strolling out of the room. 

 

Harry stayed seated and listened as Draco summoned his tools from upstairs with a purposeful-sounding  _ Accio _ , which was swiftly followed by the familiar roar of the living room Floo. 

 

When the fire died down, it left an ear-splitting silence in its wake. 

 

Harry still didn’t make any effort to move; he simply sat and stared at the leftover scones, trying to work out what on earth had just happened.

  
  


~*~*~*~

  
  


The wait for Saturday to roll around was excruciating, and when it finally arrived, Harry was a bundle of nervous energy. He tried and failed to sit still on the sofa before resorting to pacing back and forth in anxious trepidation, a packet of dark chocolate digestives clutched tightly in his right hand.

 

Miraculously, they were still intact when Draco arrived – ten minutes early as usual – and stepped neatly out of the fireplace. His eyes immediately honed in on the biscuits.

 

“Do my eyes deceive me? Surely those aren’t  _ chocolate digestives _ !” he exclaimed, throwing his arms up in a dramatic display of shock. 

 

“Yeah, I figured I’d eat the lot and make you watch,” Harry replied, trying and failing to contain his grin. 

 

“You wish,” Draco scoffed and, with an agility that took Harry back to their days as Hogwarts Seekers, he seized the biscuits and dashed out of the room.

 

Harry stood for a moment, feeling a little bit dazed as he listened to Draco climbing the stairs, before following him. 

 

It was completely ridiculous, but despite Draco’s cheerful greeting, Harry felt a little bit disappointed. He didn’t have any right to feel like this – he’d been expecting awkwardness, not a kiss hello – and yet, he felt as though he’d been robbed of one.

 

When Harry reached the study, Draco had removed his jacket and was already leaning so far over the bowl of the Pensieve that his nose was almost touching the bottom of it. He looked up for just long enough to explain that he was going to tidy up the fiddliest bits of charmwork and would need to concentrate, before re-immersing himself in his task.

 

Harry watched for thirty seconds or so, then realised he was staring and hastily took his place at the desk. He opened his latest case file – a particularly nasty one concerning a series of violent attacks against Muggles in the West Country – and frowned down at it in an attempt to mimic Draco’s impeccable focus. 

 

As usual, it didn’t take him long to concede defeat. Every time he glimpsed Draco out of the corner of his eye, he found himself daydreaming about the kiss; the intensity with which Draco had kissed him back, how good Draco’s fingers had felt as they tangled in his hair, pulling him closer...

 

Draco, meanwhile, seemed oblivious to his effect on Harry. True to his word, he was quieter than normal, casting a long series of complicated non-verbal charms over the bowl of the Pensieve. Every so often, he paused to eat a chocolate digestive, but he made no effort to chat as he worked.

 

Harry resigned himself to watching and letting his mind wander. Admiring Draco’s arse wasn’t a bad way to spend a Saturday morning, he mused. 

 

Unfortunately for Harry, barely any time seemed to pass before Draco stood abruptly and cleared his throat. “That’s it, then,” he said, picking up his jacket and stowing his wand in one of its pockets.

 

“You've finished already?” Harry asked. He glanced at the clock on the far wall: they were barely an hour into the appointment.

 

“Yes,” Draco said. His tone was clipped; he seemed on edge, almost snappish. “All of the charms are working perfectly, and you should find that they complement your memory style and help to emphasise and preserve the aspects of memories you find most important.”

 

Harry nodded, taken aback by Draco’s sudden return to cool professionalism, and watched as he packed away the rest of his things. It was the wrong thing to do: Harry’s silence seemed to make Draco’s mood even worse.

 

“I’ll be off, then,” Draco said when he’d finished. His expression was almost completely neutral, but the crease between his eyebrows – the tiniest hint of a frown – gave his irritation away.

 

Harry’s heart was pounding. He’d been meaning to talk about last week’s kiss, or even to ask Draco out on a date, but his courage deserted him in the face of Draco’s sudden mood swing. “Draco, wait. I...” 

 

Draco looked at him expectantly, and the rest of Harry’s words promptly died in his throat.

 

The silence stretched out, and Harry’s stomach twisted and turned. Even as every fibre of Harry’s being screamed at him to  _ ask Draco out _ , his tongue remained stubbornly tied. He knew the words he needed to say, but they were stuck in his throat, an uncomfortable lump he couldn't seem to swallow, as if he’d eaten a Ton-Tongue Toffee.

 

“Thanks for fixing the Pensieve. I really appreciate it,” Harry managed eventually, just for something to say. Even as he spoke, he began internally berating himself: it wasn’t what he wanted to say at all.

 

Draco smiled, but it was a tight, professional little smile that wasn't a patch on the warm grins he'd shared with Harry during their tea breaks. “Glad to have been of assistance.”

 

The briefest flicker of disappointment crossed his face before he turned away and pulled on his jacket. When he did so, it was as if he slipped further into his professional persona, too. 

 

“You should receive an invoice within three to five working days,” he said briskly. “If you have any further problems with the Pensieve, please don’t hesitate to give Precious Memories a call using the main customer service grate.”

 

Harry’s throat was dry. “I—”

 

“Goodbye, Harry.”

 

And with that, Draco nodded curtly and walked quickly out of the room. 

 

Harry followed as swiftly as he could, rushing along the landing and down the stairs after him. He wasn’t fast enough, though: he got to the living room just in time to watch, powerless, as the flames leapt up and carried Draco away.

 

“ _ Fuck. _ ” 

 

Harry collapsed onto the sofa and buried his face in his hands, feeling very much as if he’d missed his chance.

  
  


~*~*~*~

  
  


Harry was still moping the following Friday night when he went round to Dean and Ginny’s. He tried his best to look cheerful, but they were on to him almost immediately. 

 

It was a big match – West Ham were playing Arsenal at home – but Harry couldn’t concentrate at all. No matter how hard he tried to focus on the TV, all he could think about was Draco’s disappointed expression. Twenty minutes in, he did the unthinkable: he reached for the remote and hit the pause button.

 

Dean immediately howled as if he’d been hit by the Cruciatus curse. “What are you  _ doing _ ?” he groaned, burying his face in his hands in absolute despair. The number one rule of footie nights was that live football was never to be paused.

 

“Come on, Dean,” Ginny implored. “He’d never do it if it wasn’t serious.”

 

“I know, but can’t it wait until half time?” 

 

Ginny fixed Dean with a look so piercing it was as if, for a moment, she’d Polyjuiced into her mother. “No it can’t!” she hissed. “Look at him! He’s like a kicked Crup!”

 

Dean’s eyes widened in terror, then he slumped back against the cushions in defeat. “Fine,” he sighed. “Sorry, Harry.”

 

Ginny’s glare dissipated as quickly as it had appeared. “Much better.” She turned to Harry. “Spill.”

 

“It’s about Malfoy,” Harry muttered. “We … we kissed a couple of weeks ago.” 

 

Ginny’s face lit up. “And…?”

 

“And that’s it,” Harry said flatly. “I wanted to ask him out, but I bottled it and now he’s finished fixing my Pensieve. I’ll probably never see him again.”

 

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Ever the drama queen,” she muttered. “Why don’t you stop being such a wimp and tell him how you feel?”

 

Harry sighed. “I have no idea how to get hold of him. I’d have to Floo-call Precious Memories again and ask for him to come back. Fuck knows how long they’d keep me on hold – last time my back nearly gave out – and I doubt he’d want to see me, anyway.”

 

Ginny stifled a laugh. “Since when was the great Harry Potter so self-pitying?” she teased. Her amusement quickly faltered under the weight of Harry’s answering glare. “Sorry. You’re being ridiculous, though. If you’re that worried about your precious spine,  _ I _ can Floo Precious Memories and pretend I want him to do a repair for me...”

 

Dean cleared his throat, interrupting Ginny’s plotting. “Or, you know … I could just give you his address.”

 

“What?” Harry and Ginny asked in unison.

 

“He owled me a few weeks ago,” Dean said. “He’s looking to redesign his study and apparently he was so impressed with yours that he wants me to do it.” 

 

Ginny gaped. “How is this the first I’ve heard about it?” 

 

Dean shrugged. “It didn’t seem that important at the time. Unlike you two, I’m not obsessed with the bloke! But yeah, I have his address...”

 

“Go and get it!” Ginny demanded, pushing him up off the sofa. “Now!”

 

Dean sighed, then disappeared into the hallway and returned a few moments later holding a neatly folded piece of paper. He passed it to Harry. “There you go.”

 

Harry took it and stuffed it into his pocket. “Thanks.”

 

“Excellent,” Ginny beamed. “Now you can stop moping and go and see him.”

 

Harry wasn't quite convinced. “I’ll think about it,” he mumbled.

 

Dean shrugged. “You might as well. You don't really have anything to lose, do you? Just don’t do anything that’ll make him change his mind about his study. I’m looking forward to that job.”

 

Harry assured Dean that he wouldn’t and, eager to end the conversation, reached for the remote. The players unfroze and the match continued. Before long, Dean and Ginny were shouting at the screen as if it had never been paused.

 

Harry’s concentration wasn’t much better than before, though. His thoughts were still consumed by Malfoy, and the piece of paper in his pocket felt as though it was going to burn a hole through his jeans. He barely registered when West Ham scored the first goal, nor when Arsenal scored the equaliser, and when the match came to an end it took a shove from Ginny for him to even notice.

 

He scrambled to his feet and said a hasty goodbye, then headed for the Floo in a daze, only half-aware of his friends wishing him luck.

 

When Harry stepped out into his living room, he didn't even pause to brush the ash from his shoulders before reaching into his pocket for the piece of paper containing Draco’s address.

 

He carefully unfolded it and squinted at Dean’s neat handwriting, realising with a jolt that Draco’s house was barely a fifteen minute walk away. If he wanted to, he could go there right now...

 

But why would Draco want to see him after their last awkward goodbye? Yes, he’d looked disappointed at Harry’s failure to make a move, but it wasn't as if he’d made any attempt to ask  _ Harry _ out. 

 

Harry began to wander restlessly from room to room, weighing up his options. Everywhere he went, memories of Draco leapt up like shadows, demanding his attention. He started in the kitchen, staring at the kettle and thinking of Draco’s constant requests for cups of tea. Then he went to stand in the doorway of the dining room and remembered the afternoon with the scones, and the way they’d managed to talk tentatively about the past. The memory of their kiss was inescapable, almost tangible, rising up from the polished floorboards and filling the room. As he stood there, Harry realised he needed to see it properly.

 

He turned on his heel and dashed upstairs to the study with a renewed sense of purpose. He hadn't even entered the room since Draco had left; his case file from the previous weekend still lay open on the desk. 

 

Harry went straight over to the Pensieve, putting his wand to his temple as he did so and concentrating hard on his memory of the kiss. A thick silver thread emerged, clinging precariously to the tip of his wand.

 

He held his wand over the bowl, ready to drop the shimmering strand into it, and froze. There was already a memory in there.

 

Harry frowned. There shouldn't be anything in there. Perhaps something had gone wrong with the repair? 

 

He leaned in for a closer look. The memory definitely wasn’t one of his; the pattern of the mist was unfamiliar, swirling far more smoothly than any of Harry’s own memories ever had. 

 

He took out a fresh glass vial, dropped his memory of the kiss inside, then stoppered it carefully and set it aside. Once it was safe, he leaned over the Pensieve.

 

He knew this was risky: the voice in the back of his mind – which sounded suspiciously like Hermione – reminded him of all the stories he’d ever heard about people getting their heads trapped inside Pensieves or having their own memories addled by unstable charmwork. It didn’t matter, though. What if the memory was one of Draco’s? He needed to see it.

 

Harry took a deep breath and plunged his face into the bowl, blinking frantically as the mist cleared and his eyes adjusted to the scene around him.

 

The scene of the memory was his own dining room, only everything looked slightly different. The image was clearer, crisper, as though the memory had been recorded at a time of high-alert. Harry suddenly understood what Draco had said about people having different memory styles, and his stomach twisted in anticipation as his suspicions were confirmed: this memory belonged to Draco. 

 

He and Draco were deep in conversation at the table, sitting so close their shoulders were almost touching. Their position looked startlingly intimate – even more so than Harry remembered. They looked almost like a proper couple.

 

Harry leaned further into the Pensieve, trying to get a better view. Draco looked sharper than he did in real life – his chin slightly pointier, his shoulders narrower – and Harry realised the memory was mirroring Draco’s own insecurities.

 

Intrigued, Harry took a good look at himself. He looked different, too: somehow more attractive than he usually looked in the mirror. He also seemed more at ease than he remembered feeling during any of Draco’s visits. It was disorientating to see himself as Draco saw him.

 

Then Harry saw the plates of scones on the table and realised what was about to happen. He listened hard, trying to tune into the conversation.

 

“...rather easier on the eye, for one,” Draco was saying.

 

_ Any second now _ , Harry thought, hardly daring to blink.

 

When memory-Harry leaned in for the kiss, it looked infinitely more natural than it had felt at the time. There was no indication of his fear that Draco wouldn’t kiss back; just an air of easy confidence that seemed to radiate from him in all directions. The pause before Draco returned the kiss seemed shorter, too.

 

Harry watched, transfixed, as Draco’s hands inched up to the back of memory-Harry’s neck and tangled in his hair. From this angle he could see the beginning of the blush he’d noticed on Draco’s cheeks after the kiss; it rose slowly from Draco’s collar, creeping up his neck and spreading across his sharp cheekbones.

 

A rush of heat shot through Harry’s veins, pooling in his groin and making his head spin. He adjusted his stance to make room for his swelling cock, which was trapped uncomfortably inside his boxers, and wondered vaguely whether it was narcissistic to be this turned on watching a memory of himself.

 

When Draco pulled away, just as abruptly as Harry remembered, they both looked equally stunned. 

 

The room around them had faded into a blur: Draco had been so focused on Harry in the aftermath of the kiss that their surroundings seemed to melt away. Despite the blurred background, Harry could still feel a hint of Draco’s giddy excitement – it was palpable in the air of the memory, making Harry’s skin tingle and his pulse quicken.

 

Harry wanted to see more, but Draco was already on his feet and the memory was fading fast. There was nothing he could do: the last details of the memory dissolved, and Harry soon found himself blinking hopelessly at a thick mass of white fog.

 

When it became clear that the memory was well and truly over, Harry withdrew his head from the Pensieve and stood up straight, heart hammering as a giddy feeling of triumph bubbled up in his chest. Draco had wanted him to see the memory. The kiss had meant something to him, too. 

 

Without a moment’s delay, Harry dashed from the room and ran down the stairs two at a time, almost tripping over his own feet in the process. He grabbed the nearest pair of shoes – his battered work boots – and tugged them on as quickly as he could before running out the front door, barely stopping to activate the wards.

  
  


~*~*~*~

  
  


Fifteen minutes later, Harry found himself standing on the porch of a tall, narrow townhouse in the pouring rain. He was soaked to the skin; he’d been so eager to get there that he hadn’t brought an umbrella or his wand, and his wandless Impervius charms had never been any good.

 

He rang the doorbell quickly, before he could have second thoughts. Thirty torturous seconds ticked by, then a minute. Harry’s stomach churned as his mind began to supply unpleasant suggestions as to why Draco might not be answering the door. What if he was out with another bloke? What if he was  _ in _ with one?   
  


Harry was about to turn around and leave when the door finally opened to reveal a stunned-looking Draco, dressed more casually than Harry had ever seen him in jeans and a plain black t-shirt.

 

“Harry?”

 

“Draco!” 

 

Harry’s heart leapt up into his throat. It took every shred of his self-control not to grab Draco and snog him senseless, but he somehow managed to blurt out a torrent of words instead. “I needed to see you. I buggered up on Saturday. I’ve been thinking about it all week. I meant to ask you if—shit. You’re busy, aren’t you? God, I’m such an idiot, I didn’t even stop to think you might be busy.” Harry knew he was babbling, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. “I can go – you know, come back another time when you’re actually expecting me, and—” 

 

Draco cut him off by holding up his hands. “Bloody hell, Harry. Calm down. I’m not busy, just surprised to find you on my doorstep given that I don’t recall telling you my address.”

 

“Oh! I got it from Dean,” Harry admitted sheepishly. 

 

Draco looked relieved. “Ah. That’s less creepy, then. For a moment I thought you’d been stalking me.”

 

“No, definitely not stalking. Not since school, anyway,” Harry added with a nervous laugh.

 

Draco frowned. “What?”

 

“Nothing,” Harry said hastily. 

 

“Right…” Draco didn’t look entirely convinced, but he didn’t press Harry to explain. After a short pause, he brought the conversation neatly to the topic Harry had been intending to start with. “I take it you’re here because you’ve found my memory?” 

 

“Yeah,” Harry grinned. “I went to watch my own memory of the kiss and there it was, sitting in the Pensieve.” 

 

“And…?” Draco asked, folding his arms across his chest. His face was a mask of cool consideration; only the bright gleam in his eyes betrayed the full extent of his interest.

 

Harry took a deep breath. “And it showed me how stupid I was not to ask you out on a date before you left on Saturday.”

 

Draco raised an elegant eyebrow. “Oh, really?” 

 

Harry’s stomach felt as though it had tied itself in a knot, but it was far too late to backtrack. He pressed on, relieved when his words came out sounding more confident than he felt. “Yeah, really. So what do you say?” 

 

A broad smile spread across Draco’s face, finally putting Harry out of his misery. “I’d like that a lot. Especially if I get to choose where we go. Call it intuition, but I suspect your taste in restaurants is dreadful.” 

 

Harry couldn’t argue with that, even if Draco’s snobbery did send a prickle of annoyance down his spine. “Great. How about tomorrow night? I could pick you up around seven?”

 

“That would be nice. Unless…” Draco hesitated, taking in Harry’s drenched appearance. “Do you want to come in for a bit? You look like you could do with drying off a bit.” 

 

A rush of giddy excitement washed over Harry so quickly he felt as though he’d downed a Pepper-Up Potion. “Yeah, that’d be great. It’s about time I got to see your house, after you’ve spent so many weekends loitering around mine.”

 

Draco rolled his eyes as he moved back to let Harry in. “Firstly, Malfoys never  _ loiter _ . And secondly, you never were a good a listener. It’s a flat, not a house – I live on the top floor.”

 

Harry stepped inside and wiped his wet trainers on the doormat, cringing as they squeaked loudly against it. All the time they’d been talking, he’d forgotten how soaking wet he was, but now that he was inside, he was suddenly freezing. He shivered as Draco closed the front door, instantly banishing the late evening chill from the hallway. At that moment, Harry’s mind supplied a particularly appealing way of warming up.

 

Before Draco could even let go of the handle, Harry grabbed his wrist and pulled him close. They were stood almost nose to nose, chest to chest – or they would have been had Draco not been a few inches taller than him. Harry could practically feel the warmth radiating from Draco’s body.

 

“What are you doing?” Draco asked quietly.

 

“What I should have done last week,” Harry replied, tilting his head up a tiny bit further to capture Draco’s lips in a tentative kiss. This time he didn’t have to wait for Draco to respond.

 

The kiss began gently, but it didn’t stay that way for long. After an initial ‘ _ Oh _ ’ of surprise, Draco kissed back hungrily, pulling Harry even closer, doing all he could to take control just as he had last time. 

 

They stumbled backwards until Draco had Harry pinned firmly against the front door. The handle dug awkwardly into the small of Harry’s back, but he was too lost in the kiss to care. Kissing Draco was even better than Harry remembered; he was gloriously responsive, slipping his tongue between Harry’s lips, his breath hitching in his throat as he ran his hands up Harry’s body.

 

The support of the door made it all too easy to escalate the kiss further. They started to rut desperately against one another, rolling their hips in search of friction, groaning into one another’s mouths as they found it.

 

It felt so good, so intense, as if all the weeks of wanting were magnifying every sensation, to the point that Harry began to worry he might actually come in his jeans. He was trying to decide whether that was a catastrophe to avoid or a goal to aim for when a floorboard creaked loudly on the floor above.

 

He and Draco froze against one another, then sprung apart as if stung and immediately burst out laughing at their overreaction.

 

“Bedroom?” Draco murmured when they’d had a few seconds to calm down. “I’m not sure I’d be able to face my neighbours if the were to catch us … _frotting_ … in the hallway like a couple of teenagers.

 

“Definitely,” Harry agreed. “Lead the way.”

 

Draco ushered Harry up two flights of polished wooden stairs and into his flat. Harry did his best to look around, but Draco dragged him through to the bedroom so quickly that he he barely caught of a glimpse of the living room. All he managed to register was that it was incredibly modern – the polar opposite of Grimmauld Place.

 

Draco’s bedroom, meanwhile, was exactly as Harry would have pictured it, from the huge four-poster bed to the plush cream carpet and the muted silver accents on the wallpaper. 

 

Harry didn’t have long to take it in, though. The moment they crossed the threshold of the room Draco was on him, kissing him hard and pushing him insistently back towards the bed. Harry was more than happy to let him.

 

When they’d stumbled far enough back that the edge of the mattress was pressing into the back of Harry’s thighs, he kissed slowly along the sharp line of Draco’s jaw, relishing the smoothness, the complete absence of stubble. He paused only briefly, long enough to let Draco tug his wet t-shirt up and over his head, accidentally knocking his glasses askew in the process, before turning his attention to the sensitive skin of Draco’s neck.

 

“I’ve wanted this for weeks,” Harry whispered against the tender hollow below Draco’s earlobe as Draco made quick work of the button on his jeans. He smelled wonderful: musky and rich, the very same scent Harry had breathed in on his jacket, all those weeks ago.

 

“Have you?” Draco asked breathlessly, slipping his hand beneath the waistband of Harry’s boxers to cup Harry’s prick.

 

“Yeah … ever since I first saw you in those— _ uhhhh _ —glasses...” Harry wanted to say more, but the words evaporated as Draco began to stroke him, setting a maddenly slow pace that had Harry  _ aching _ for more.

 

“Did you like watching me while I worked?” Draco whispered, his breath hot against Harry’s neck. “Watching me bend over for you?” 

 

“ _ Yesss _ ,” Harry hissed, too far gone to be embarrassed that he’d been caught gawping. He grabbed frantically at Draco’s arse, stifling his own gasp when Draco groaned. It wasn’t long before he was thrusting desperately into the tight grip of Draco’s hand, mentally cursing the way his jeans and boxers were getting in the way, preventing them from doing this properly.

 

“Too many clothes,” Draco whispered and withdrew his hand so smoothly that Harry barely managed to suppress his whine of frustration. He had a point, though.

 

“Let’s fix that, then,” Harry replied. He pulled off his boots and socks, then stepped clumsily out of his jeans and boxers, almost tripping over in his haste. Once he was completely naked, he sat on the edge of the bed to watch Draco undress.

 

He stared, wide-eyed, as Draco pulled off his t-shirt to reveal an expanse of lily-white skin, interrupted only by his pale pink nipples and a scattering of scars. Harry tried keep his expression neutral, but it was no use. A searing flash of guilt seized him as he looked at the scars: the ones he’d caused back when they’d been Potter and Malfoy, back when they’d been enemies at war.

 

“Stop it,” Draco said sharply, snapping Harry out of his thoughts. “We’re here to fuck, not to reminisce.”

 

“I know, but—” Harry’s apology abandoned him, along with his guilt and just about every other rational thought, as Draco dropped to his knees in front of him.

 

“But nothing.” 

 

Harry knew he ought to protest, to insist on making a proper apology, but he was powerless to do anything other than arch up with a groan as Draco leaned forward and gave the head of his cock a slow, teasing lick.

 

It was more than a little embarrassing to make such a noise so quickly, but Draco didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he looked pretty pleased with himself. He smirked slightly, arched an eyebrow as if accepting a challenge, then took the head of Harry’s cock into his mouth and  _ sucked _ . 

 

“Fuck, Draco,  _ nnngggghh! _ ”

 

The white-hot pleasure caught Harry off-guard. He’d enjoyed plenty of blowjobs before – from more than a handful of blokes, and with varying degrees of success – but the fact that this was  _ Draco _ , and they were in Draco’s bedroom, somehow made everything much more intense.

 

Draco chose that moment to slide his lips down Harry’s shaft, never breaking eye contact as he took in as much of Harry’s cock as he could, and Harry forgot how to breathe. The sight of Draco’s lips, stretched around the base of his cock, was almost too much. Harry shut his eyes tight, but it barely made a difference – if anything, it magnified the sensations even more.

 

Draco was obviously an expert when it came to sucking cock: every time Harry felt his orgasm approaching, Draco switched his technique, buying a little more time. One minute he took Harry’s cock deep into his throat, the next he pulled back to flick the tip of his tongue across Harry’s sensitive slit, sucking lightly until Harry was gripping at the duvet in a desperate attempt to restrain himself from grabbing the back of Draco’s head and thrusting up into his mouth. 

 

Harry could have roared with frustration when, just as he began his third garbled warning that he was about to come, Draco pulled away completely and sat back on his heels.

 

“Why are you stopping?” Harry blurted out, far more rudely than he’d intended.

 

“I was rather hoping you’d fuck me,” Draco smirked, his lips flushed and slightly swollen from the blowjob.

 

Harry gaped.

 

“Unless you’d prefer not to,” Draco added hastily, his confidence dissipating under the weight of Harry’s wide-eyed gaze.

 

“No! That would be—I mean, I  _ definitely _ want to!” Harry babbled, not even caring that he sounded over-eager.

 

Draco sighed, clearly relieved. “Good.” He removed the rest of his clothes, then fumbled, with uncharacteristic clumsiness, in the drawer of his beside table and retrieved a small glass bottle. 

 

Harry bit back a laugh – of  _ course _ Draco would have posh lube rather than the ordinary, plastic-bottle stuff – and took it. He slicked his fingers quickly, coating two up to the knuckle as Draco got into position. When he looked up, it took every bit of self-control to hold back a whimper.

 

Draco was on his hands and knees, facing the foot of the bed, offering his arse to Harry like a gift. He was leaning forward just enough that Harry could see the dusky pink of his arsehole, standing out in contrast to the stark white of his skin.

 

“Are you going to sit there staring all night or are you going to get on with it?” Draco asked, snapping Harry out of his daze and into action.

 

“Didn’t realise you were so impatient,” Harry teased. He reached out, entranced, and let the very tip of his oiled index finger graze the furled pucker of Draco’s hole. As he did, Draco took him by surprise by pushing back firmly, causing Harry’s finger to enter him up to the first knuckle. 

 

“I’ve never been one for waiting when there’s something I— _ uhhh _ —want.”

 

Harry took the hint and began to work Draco open, using one finger at first, then two. He was tight – even tighter than Harry had expected – but he accepted the intrusion willingly, shifting his hips and forcing his muscles to relax as Harry began to stretch him. 

 

The sight of his fingers sinking into Draco’s arse was almost unbearably erotic to Harry. He was achingly hard and wanted nothing more than to rush this stage; to line himself up and fuck Draco into the mattress, but he knew he needed to be patient.

 

Draco’s breathing caught in his throat when Harry started to twist and scissor his fingers, then sped up until he was almost panting. “Enough,” he moaned breathlessly. “I’m ready.” 

 

Harry couldn’t resist twisting his fingers once more, coaxing another low moan from Draco’s lips, before gently slipping them out and wiping them surreptitiously on the sheets. “How do you want to do this?” he asked.

 

Draco turned to face Harry and took a moment to weigh up the options. “Sit back,” he ordered.

 

Harry shifted backwards until he was sat with his back against the headboard of the bed. “Like this?”

 

Draco nodded. “Exactly like that.”

 

He crawled over to Harry and straddled his lap, still facing the end of the bed. Harry tore his gaze from the lean muscle of Draco’s back and hastily reached for the glass bottle of lube. He coated his cock liberally, stroking himself a few more times than was strictly necessary.

 

“Ready?” Draco asked.

 

“Yeah,” Harry breathed.

 

Draco placed his left hand on Harry’s thigh for balance, then reached back with his right to carefully line the head of Harry’s cock up. Once he was confident they were in position, Draco pushed back slowly, breathing deeply as he gradually inched his way down Harry’s cock.

 

Harry watched in awe, reaching up to rest his hands on either side of Draco’s waist, guiding him all the way down.

 

Draco began to move as soon as he was fully seated, rolling his hips in slow circles as he adjusted to the stretch of Harry’s cock. It was the cruelest tease Harry had ever experienced; he couldn’t help but frustratedly dig his fingertips into the smooth skin of Draco’s waist.

 

Harry didn’t want to beg, but he needed more, he needed … “Draco,  _ please _ !”

 

“Who’s impatient now?” Draco asked, and even though Harry couldn’t see his face, he could  _ hear _ the grin that underpinned his words.

 

Draco didn’t wait for a reply; apparently he’d had enough of waiting, too. He rose up a couple of inches, then sank back down hard, stealing Harry’s breath. 

 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Harry gasped, his head falling back against the headboard as Draco settled into a steady rhythm. He rode Harry hard and fast, holding himself upright in such a way that Harry knew was intended to maximise the amount of contact Harry’s cock had with his prostate.

 

Harry knew he wouldn’t last long; Draco’s arse was too tight, the pleasure was building too fast, his balls were tightening already … but from the noises Draco was making, he wasn’t far behind.

 

Harry moved his hands up from Draco’s waist and dragged his fingernails slowly down the length of his back, just hard enough to leave a trail of red marks. “So good Draco, so— _ ohhhh _ —fucking good.”

 

Draco’s movements suddenly stuttered. “C-coming,” he choked, abruptly switching back to the slow, circular grinding he’d started with as he rode out his orgasm. Harry suddenly resented the position they were in; he wished he could see Draco’s face, wished he could more easily reach Draco’s cock to coax out every last drop of come … but even though the view wasn’t what he’d hoped for, he could still feel the intensity of Draco’s climax perfectly.

 

Draco’s arse tightened rhythmically around Harry’s prick, gripping him tight and pulling him firmly over the edge, too. Harry bit down on his bottom lip to stop himself from moaning Draco’s name as he emptied himself completely, filling Draco’s arse with his release. It was one of the most intense orgasms Harry had ever experienced. He felt it in every cell of his body, right down to his bones, and even the aftershocks seemed to go on for an age.

 

Draco stayed perfectly still until both of their breathing had returned to normal, then climbed gingerly off Harry’s lap and slumped on his back on the other side of the bed. “Fuck, that was good,” he murmured, closing his eyes in sated satisfaction. 

 

“So good,” Harry agreed. He wriggled down the bed until he was laying beside Draco. The afterglow was all-consuming; Harry’s limbs felt like lead and all he wanted, more than anything in the world, was to fall asleep. 

 

“Looks like our date will have to be breakfast, now” he joked lazily. When Draco didn’t reply, he panicked. “I’m only kidding. I can go if you want…”

 

Draco yawned widely and waved a hand dismissively. “No, stay. But if you steal the duvet, I’ll send you straight home.” 

 

“I’ll behave, I promise,” Harry said earnestly. “I wouldn’t pass up the chance to make some more  _ precious memories _ with you in the morning…”

 

Draco opened his eyes and turned to face Harry, looking as if he was going to be sick. “That was terrible.” 

 

“Yeah, it was,” Harry admitted. “Sorry.” He rolled onto his side and slung an arm across Draco’s warm body, burying his face in the crook of Draco’s neck. 

 

Draco was asleep within minutes, and it wasn’t long before Harry began to doze, too. His last thought as he dropped off to sleep was that his memory of the evening was certainly one to put in his cabinet.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! All comments are extremely welcome either here or on [Livejournal](https://hd-fan-fair.livejournal.com/136477.html).


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